Everything you need to know about running and life and any other random crap I find bouncing through my mind like a ping pong ball. And always be sure your shoes are happy.

Archive for the month “June, 2012”

I have about 839 things I could be doing right now. What do you think? Do something? Clean house? Fold laundry? Post memberships?

Hold on – I’m thinking. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Wi8Fv0AJA4 (for those of you who want to sing along, here are the lyrics: doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo DO dado doo! doodoodoodoodoo doo doo DO dado do do do. do. dooooo)

Nah, they all just lost. I’m going to write and stare out the window at the lake.

I am apparently turning into my Grandma Alice. Except she was a very sweet person, so that part I did not get. If she ever said a cuss word I think the entire surrounding South Dakota community would have sunk into the earth forever, leaving a gaping crater. Crater Alice they would call it, and shake their heads sadly at the memory. All those innocent lives, lost, because Alice one day looked up and said, Well. Sh*t.

My Grandfather, John, lost all but the last joint of one of his fingers in a farming accident. When we were little we would say, “Oh, Grandpa! How did your finger get cut off!?” and he would reply, “Your grandmother got mad at me and cut it off with the kitchen knife!” and we’d look at sweet Grandma Alice and say, “GRANDMA!” in horror. She’d just shake her head and murmur, “Oh, John.” in a sweet little voice.

Maybe she was so sweet because she ate so much sugar. She lived to 103, never had any health problems except colon cancer in her nineties which they removed and was never a problem again, and I think 1/2 a blood pressure pill. But that woman ate sugar all day long. Breakfast: cinnamon roll, coffee. Or coffee cake and coffee. Or toast and jam and coffee (and she put extra sugar in the bread recipe). Two hours later it was time for coffee and a cookie, or piece of cake or whatever. Repeat throughout the day. Sugar in the coleslaw, sugar in the potato salad, she even put sugar in the jar of dill pickles. One day we were visiting and my children watched in fascination as she spread butter on a saltine, opened a sugar packet, sprinkled it on top and ate the cracker with her coffee. She was ticked because the nursing home didn’t have any cookies out that morning.

She existed on about 6 hours of sleep, out of bed before the sun in order to get breakfast on for everyone out milking the cows in the freezing dark, but she could power nap like a champ. Grandma would lie down after lunch, close her eyes, pop back up 10-15 minutes later and get moving like Robocop the rest of the day. Herded five kids and a farmer all over the farm most of her life, put up her own veggies, used a wringer washer for I don’t know how long, worked her veggie garden, gathered eggs. Me: I’m pretty tired right now, Facebook can Wear. You. Out.

Today I woke at 4am – and 4 or 4:30am is seeing my face a lot more lately, not that I’m happy about it. Probably Grandma Alice wasn’t either. I do get a lot of work done then, like she did, only different. I answer all my emails that crazy people send me in the night and later the runners or the Board members reply: WTH were you doing checking email at 4:13am?? Coffee – lots of it. But no sugared saltines, thank you anyway. After I got up at 4am and drank half a pot of coffee I met my friend, Speedy Gonzalette, at the track and did a tempo run. That was fun. I’ve never done that before. Funny how you can call something that sucked like an egg sucking dog “fun” but it was. Other than all that sweat burning my eyes. And the gasping for air. And the skyrocketing HR. Aside from that, definitely fun. After lunch, however, I was crashing so I laid down for a minute or sixty. Grandma Alice Power Nap on ‘roids!!

I will point out that I deserve to be tired; in addition to the 6.5 today, yesterday I ran 2 miles, worked out with Killer (who is getting better, by the way, but she’s gonna be laid up for a few weeks) for an hour, then later worked in the yard in the CODE PURPLE Memphis air for an hour. Didn’t actually ever know there was a code purple but by dingydangy there is. (See? trying to be sweet like Grandma). I thought Code Orange was the best you could hope for.

Whee!!!! I kinda went somewhere in my brain for a few minutes, looking at it. Let’s do that again!

(40 minutes later)

O. KAY. That was more fun than a tempo run. How are you doing? And who am I?

Probably all the blood loss didn’t help, that’s probably why I’m tired and lost my focus there for a fewforty minutes. Cattila the Hun has been decorating my arms with her dagger like, razor-tipped claws until they look like a completed jigsaw puzzle. I think most of the time she doesn’t mean to, but she reaches out and there they are and there I am and SLASH I look like a horror movie. This morning she got one claw hung up in my shirt and couldn’t get it out. I’ve known for a couple of weeks I needed to do something about this issue. I thought about it for a while and decided ignoring it would be my first option. Obviously that failed. Then I considered trimming them myself. That was an Epic Fail resulting in two trimmed claws for her and considerable blood loss for me. I can take her in to the vet any time between 8-noon and 2-5pm without an appointment but I kept putting it off because it’s nearly 20 minutes each way and the non-stop howling mewing kind of gets on my nerves after a couple of seconds. This morning, however, I remembered my secret weapon: the pheromones (story here, in case you forgot). I got out the cat carrier, spritzed a bit of kitty happy pheromones around it and when I picked her up and took her to the carrier she popped right into that sucker without a peep. She mewed most of the way but it wasn’t that ear shattering, incessant, tornado siren pitch. And on the way home she just mewed a few times and gazed up through the skylight, rather like she was looking at an Air Quality Chart. I’m telling you: They have got to figure out Happy Teenager pheromones. They’d make a hundred bamillion bucks.

Murph T. Dog, however, snorts at pheromones. He don’t need no stinking pheromones. The world, to Murphy, is a wonderland.

DUCKS! BARK!

SQUIRRELS! DEATH TO SQUIRRELS!

LAKE! SWIM!

If we open the car door – even only to retrieve the groceries – he’s IN. Car = Love. He’ll sit in the car with the door open and hubs listening to NPR blaring on the car radio for the entire neighborhood’s enjoyment for two, three hours while hubs works outside. True love. Dad, and a car.

On June 7th and again on June 13th two different bloggers nominated me for the “Inspiring Blog Award”. Apparently having your butt fall off does have its advantages, even though they are seldom very obvious. Thank you both, I’m very pleased to know my falling off a$$ has inspired you. Or perhaps it was my very favorable review of the psycho spinning instructor. It’s always good to have an inspiring psychosis, I always say. Right after I was nominated I fell into a Black Hole and didn’t get to write for two weeks. I waited to post on this because I wanted to be sure to give proper attention to these two bloggers who, seriously, really made me feel special with their very nice words and nomination.

As with anything, there are Rules.

1) Nominate fellow bloggers for this award and state why
2) Give seven personal revelations about myself that would not ordinarily appear on my blog
3) publicly thank my nominator(s)

The blogs I follow most often (and I’d like to follow more but my time is limited now) are, in no particular order other than the order they are currently open in my browser:

http://runninginmommyland.com/ A mom of twins who completed her first marathon this past Spring, I am inspired by a mom who manages to fit in parenting twins and training for a marathon, something I could not accomplish until my guys were 16 years old. She openly and lovingly shares her struggles and her joys; I love reading her posts and remembering the times of my children’s youth.

http://kittybloger.wordpress.com/author/quetal2/ I guess in the strictest sense someone posting cute and funny pics of cats and kittens isn’t incredibly inspiring like training for marathons – but she makes my day! I don’t know where she finds these pics and vids but they are always good for a smile in the morning.

http://inspiringandhealthyrunninginlondon.wordpress.com Here’s inspiring: She runs for Team in Training. AWE.SOME. And lives in London. Which means she types with an English accent. I try to read her blog with an English accent but mine is deplorable. My southern accent isn’t much better.

http://annewoodman.wordpress.com/ Whom I believe I’ve nominated before, if so sorry for the duplication, but I love her blogs, love her style and love interacting with her. I think if we lived next door to each other we’d be talking over the fence every day.

The nominators, and two ladies whom I follow regularly, are (in order of date nominating me)

http://rebuildingholly.wordpress.com/ Another writer I’ve been following almost since I started blogging, altho I’m not sure how she found me, I think if we met over drinks we’d immediately be friends and within 15 minutes laughing at inside jokes.

http://middleagedwomanontherun.com/ This lady I do know personally and she’s quite a go-getter. Joining the Women Run/Walk Memphis program last year, she took off like a shot, almost immediately started planning a race to benefit the Ronald McDonald House for St. Jude and is now planning to do her first marathon for St. Jude in December. WHOA. Sometimes after I read her I need nap. She’s on FIRE.

Seven things that do not ordinarily appear in my blog (who are we kidding? Everything ends up in my blog. I’ll just fake some stuff.)

1. My real name. Hermione Bloodstone Smythe-Hawke

2. I lie. But I’ve always liked the sound of Hermione Bloodstone Smythe-Hawke which I would pronounce with a long “I” in Smythe.

3. If I were Hermione Bloodstone Smythe-Hawk I would have long, curling, wild red hair which would always be coming loose from its pinnings.

4. If I were HBSH I would run wild through the moors, climbing trees and catching fish with my bare hands, charming the local smithy’s son who was really a prince who was placed with the smithy for his safety during an uprising.

5. If I were HBSH my mother would ruefully reprimand me every time I came home with scratched knees and a torn dress.

6. If I were HBSH I would live in England and have an English accent and I would not know I had an accent. I would foolishly think I spoke normally and everyone else had the accent.

7. Whenever I sit at my desk I end up kicking off my shoes. Sometimes I have 3-4 pair of shoes under my desk before I carry them back upstairs. Today I got up to go to the kitchen and wondered why my shoes felt funny. This is why:

I haven’t blogged in over two weeks and I know both of you are in serious withdrawal by now and I want to most sincerely apologize to you both for the pain and anguish you have suffered while I was gone. I thought of you once for a minute but then I forgot.

What happened was I got a call from An Anonymous Person who is Highly Placed in the Government and involved in a Covert Operation which was not going well and Who Desperately Needed My Help. While I am sworn to secrecy about all the details of the past couple weeks, I can give you this hint: Zombies. Area 51. Espionage. End of the World. Comets.

In other words: I went out-of-town for a couple of days, then got to have the B’ster for his first sleepover at Moggie Poppa’s House for two nights after which I collapsed in a quivering heap of exhaustion, providing further support for the anti-75-year-old-women-having-babies-camp, woke the next morning with a cold, followed the next night by an asthma attack which then lead into a week of madcap adventures getting the Women Run/Walk Mfs Coaches Kick-Off Meeting planned and completed, and then stuffing 10 bajillion Road Race Series packets and mailing them because, for me, work right now is like being a tax accountant on April 1st.

Reflections on the past two weeks:

I didn’t run Monday last week, it was my off day. I’m glad they were forecasting rain while I was at my friend’s lake house. That the rain didn’t happen doesn’t matter; since we weren’t sure it if would rain we sat on the deck to wait and see, and drank some coffee. Then we got up, warmed our coffee and went back out on the deck. We repeated this until noon. We ate lunch. Then we sat on the deck and drank iced tea…repeat. At 5pm it was time to switch from tea to a glass of wine. I decided I need to do this kind of day at least once a month. Didn’t even read my book. Just sat and visited and looked at the world.

I didn’t run Tuesday morning as planned because the reluctant rain finally showed up in pouring sheets.

A little boy running toward you yelling MOGGIE with his arms outstretched is awesome.

I didn’t run Wednesday because I had a little guy in my kitchen. I made myself a ham/pepper/onion/cheese/egg white omelet while he had juice and cheerios. I sat down and he looked at my plate. “What’s that?” he pointed. “Eggs, do you want some?” He nodded. I gave him a bite. Big eyes: ‘Eggs are good!” so half my omelet went to his plate. He tried the salsa with them, too, while experimenting with all the little kid forks and spoons I remember my four using.

I didn’t run Thursday because I needed to make EGGS! for the little dude again so he could be fueled and ready for a trip to the zoo. ELEPHANT! ZEBBAH!! MONKEY! TUTLE! LION! LION! LION! TIGER! (the others all looked like lions to him). We ate lunch in the cafeteria with large windows overlooking the Monkey Area. Two monkeys came and sat at the ledge looking at the people in the People Area. They thought the little person was fascinating and enjoyed watching him in his native habitat eating a hot dog.

And, yes: Moggie let him wear his rainboots for two straight days. Mommy can make him wear real shoes. BWAhahahaha.

Friday I woke and realized every cell in my body had been emptied of energy. I tried poking around on FB while drinking copious amounts of coffee but the energy refused to come out of hiding. Sniffing, sneezing and snorting I texted Killer that I needed to bag training. I spent the day sitting at my desk working which was good since I’d gotten nothing done the past four days.

Saturday morning I still felt like crap but did six anyway. It was a pretty morning and I love running through the neighborhood next to ours, they wisely kept as many old growth trees as possible when they began building, it’s beautiful and shady, almost like running in the countryside. Then I worked all day. This time of year is when most of the memberships come due, and we have the Road Race Series and Women Run/Walk Memphis both starting up within a week of each other. For whatever reason both events are trending about 60% increase in registrations over last year, right now. WRWM will cap at 1,500 but we do not have a registration cap on the RRS. Last year we had 1,367 full series registrants so a 50-60% increase in regs could mean a whole lot of people at the starting line, and a whole lot of bibs, chips, packets and data entry for me. I’m just trying to keep my nose to the stone and not get behind.

While I was working Saturday I saw a pic pop up on FB. It was Killer. She was sitting in the middle of the road with her cycling group clustered around her. Broken left thumb, needed surgery to insert a pin, stitches, Stage 2 or 3 AC separation of the right shoulder and whiplash, EMT’s transported her to their site so her hubs could ride 20 miles back to the car and then come get her. They were really nice, they put her bike in the transport too. I visited her Monday night and the poor little thing was pathetic. She’s so tiny anyway that I’m practically looking at the top of her head; her left arm was in huge, thick cast from fingertips to elbow, right arm in a sling for the shoulder separation and couldn’t move her head due to the whiplash. I have no clue how she’s going to eat, her hubs will have to drop food in her mouth like a momma birdie. It made me think having an asthma attack is kind of like a picnic.

Last week I got a new running shirt! Love it! www.onemoremile.com The fabric is great – it feels like brushed cotton but it’s tech fiber. And it didn’t stick to me when I got all sweaty.

Saturday night I had the aforementioned asthma attack; haven’t had a full-blown attack in years so that was frustrating. And, of course, caused me to bag my Sunday run; I spent the day putzing in the house and working, shaking my head at all the crazy nutjob runners in Memphis, our 3,795 club members, the 1,500 hundred ladies who will participate in WRWM, the nearly 2,000 that will end up in the RRS; Memphis – the city tagged #48 in fitness in the 2010 list of the 50 largest cities. Last year we moved up to #47. I guess I need to email them and protest. But first I’m going to have to stop Cat from eating the club’s bumper stickers – be right back.

By the way, it would probably be a lot easier to blog if I didn’t have the cat’s tail whipping back and forth on my mouse and keyboard. Now she’s looking out the window at the birds and appears to be feeling a bit irritated. Perhaps because she can see the birds, squirrels and a large buzzing insect of unknown heritage which is currently slamming itself repeatedly against the window screen, but she cannot reach them. Personally I don’t care how she feels because she’s been demoted to my B list for scaring the HOOEY out of me. The Idiot Cat likes tape. I thought cats hated tape. I thought when it sticks to their paws they would get upset. In fact, I thought you could use tape as a deterrent – put it somewhere you don’t want them to go and they’ll quit when they keep stepping on the stickiness. But, no. She’s enamored. When I open the tape drawer she crawls in and tries to lick the dispenser. The other day I was taping some stuff together with clear packing tape. I cut off the excess and before I could say oh, I don’t know, just any really short words very fast, she’d swallowed it. Or, not. Mostly she was choking. A Lot. I was trying to grab her and figure out how to Heimlich a cat while she was growling at me and hacking all over the kitchen, and I was chasing behind her trying to catch her and squeeze her stomach or anything else I could think of in my panic which I might think was a good thing to try while the dog got excited and started running in circles barking in a desperate attempt to be part of the action. Finally Damn Cat hacked it out in a ball of foamy spit and then I was all grossed out but relieved and I Windexed the counter. Because Windex can fix pretty much anything, as you probably know. Perhaps I should have sprayed it on her. So anyway now Sh*t Head is on my list.

In view of the cold and the asthma I’ve had a good week, running. So good, in fact, that yesterday all the fast girls stayed home and I managed 2nd in my age group at the Incredibly Awesome and Fantastically Well Run Ultimate 10k/5k sponsored by St. Francis and benefiting Youth Villages (shameless plug since one of you two is the RD and I figured I’d better fix this post to properly reflect and give all due credit to a race run by a Fanatic Blog Follower who most likely hid in the bushes, jumping out and tripping all the fast runners in my age group so I could place and be forever indebted).

Ah, crap, gotta go – Dip Sh*t is trying to eat the Hydrangeas in the bathroom. She thinks flowers are a salad bar.

I don’t mean it creaks of its own volition, but it creaks when it’s walked upon. I know at least one of the two of you smart a$$e$ is going to tell me to quit walking on it and it won’t be a problem. It’s not me walking on the table, it’s Chunker, you dipsh*ts. I mean that in the nicest and most affirming way possible.

Tuesday morning, for instance. Hubs was out of town which meant that I would not be awakened at 3 or 4am by the sudden disappearance of two-thirds of the bed covers. I’m no math savant but I know that 2/3 is more than 1/2. That means someone, who shall remain nameless but is the only person allowed in my bed, which, by process of elimination eliminates all of you except the hubs – not that I’m naming names here – is responsible for the disappearance of the aforementioned two-thirds of the bed covers. I’m not the one that steals my own sheets, leaving me with less than half (my fair share) of the sheets and thus awakening my own self.

“At my age” (which the Dr. keeps saying every time I visit. I’m thinking, “At your age, you say that one more time you’re going to need a proctologist to remove my shoe, buddy”) there are only two more possibilities with bed covers (other than less than half/more than half). I will be too cold or I will be too hot. At some point I will go from being cold to being too hot, at which time the covers will be thrown off and become fair game for the other resident to steal them, which once again means that I’ll wake up trying to find the missing covers.

APB: someone stole my sheet. As a side note: someone also sometimes steals Mushy Pillow. I ever need to get a divorce, all I need is to find a judge with hot flashes who has a Mushy Pillow and it’s all over.

Tuesday morning, however, no sheet stealing Mushy Pillow thief was around. I went to bed Monday night reveling in the fact that the sheets would remain intact and also that the alarm usually set for 4:30am would remain silent. But, no. A little after 3am I realized Chunk was asleep. On my leg. Which was vaguely cramping. NO nonononono…don’t spasm….CRAP. And: wide awake cat.

Her routine is to amble slowly up my side of the bed, making sure to step on my foot, my hand or my head on her journey to my fascinating and riveting bedside table. You’d think it was made of bacon. It’s wood. It has the same silk flower arrangement, the same telephone, the same pic of B’ster and the same trinket box that it’s had since we moved. The only time anything changes is if she knocks something off. But you never know. The table could suddenly go rogue, so she’d better climb on it, walk all over it, tripping over the items that are in the same place they’ve always been, making sure everything is secure, while the damn thing creaks like stairs in an old farmhouse.

She could be OCD. Because then she leaps with a thud to the floor, inspects the underside of the dresser, returns to the foot of the bed, plays a quick game of Attack The Toes, ambles up my side of the bed…repeat…Poor Murph snorts and sighs and trudges downstairs to sleep under the dining room table.

Why anyone could ever think I’m not a positive thinking person when every single blessed day I think, this is the day she will not climb all over my creaking bedside table, I don’t know. I’m trying to train the cat to wake and leave the room instead of the current routine. But, wait, HAHAHAHAHAHA I just said ‘train’ and ‘cat’ in the same sentence HAHAHAHAHA.

Ok, I’m back, I realized I’d better go take a pill.

And there you have it: Cat wakes. Table creaks. I get up and take her downstairs. Return to one-third of one-half of the covers which I then repeatedly pull on and kick off while thinking well sh*t I may as well get up and do something productive.

Doing something productive at 3:30 or 4:30 in the morning means: go immediately to The Shrine, O Thou blessed maker of dark steaming goodness, Thou protector of all living creatures in my home, I polish your shiny sides and wash your insulated pot, Cuisinart Grind ‘n Brew, thank you for keeping the world safe for one more day. Clutching the steaming mug of caffeinated ambrosia I go downstairs and surf FB uselessly because anyone else up at this time of the morning is not going to have anything better to say than I do. Status update: (state time of a.m.) (state you cannot sleep) (state you’re drinking coffee) *like* *comment: Me too* commiserate.

Later in the day, sometimes – not often – I don’t tell anyone and I pretend I’m working but really I take a nap. In the middle of the day. Like, I don’t know, I think I’m the queen or something. I always feel guilty about it. I think of all my friends who have a real life and a real job and can’t take a nap and the guilt is almost overwhelming. When I think about that and the guilt is the worst it will take me maybe an extra minute before I can fall asleep. See how I suffer for you? What with keeping up with the B’ster a couple of days this week I wasn’t able to do that. I’ve learned that trying to take a nap with a wide awake two-year old can lead to disaster. Not that I ever did that. I’m just guessing. Perhaps if you did take a nap and a two-year old was awake, like maybe they woke up early and got out of the crib, they might be able to write all over the walls with permanent marker. But probably not.

So, I didn’t work out this morning. It’s the table’s fault for creaking and making me wake up early all week. It’s the cat’s fault for not getting trained. It’s B’ster’s fault for being a two-year old. I’m just the innocent victim here. They should make a law or something. Congress needs to pass the Quit Squeaking Tables legislation, or someone needs to form the National Movement for the Right to Nap, or the Campaign Against Creaking Cats, I don’t know. It might be the Demican’s fault, but it could be the Republicrats. I think, personally, it’s the Pluracats, where those damn cats are getting the money I don’t know, but I don’t really care whose fault it really is as long as I don’t have to take responsibility.

Unfortunately that is not going to work because I have a very important announcement for both of you. We were waiting until the whole big Golden Jubilee thing was over to break the news. You’re both going to be surprised because while no one ever thought poor overlooked Charles and Camilla were in the running, the big surprise is that Will and Kate are out on their tails too.

Announcing! The new Queen of England! TRUMPETS!! FANFARE!!! (I’ve helpfully hyperlinked a trumpet fanfare for you to listen to in the background. And one of the first things I’m going to do is make them take those stupid music notebooks off the trumpets. Ruins the whole thing. It’s just a bunch of notes, they can’t memorize?)

Photo Courtesy of Sir John of the Bookas

Pretty freekin’ awesome, huh? Second thing I do after those trumpets is dye my hair, for the Love of Gawd, I’m the Queen of England, I can’t afford some hair dye at the local chemist??

The legs are less sore today, which is a happy surprise since they were kinda screaming at me yesterday, particularly on the stairs. Stairs are unavoidable in this 39 year old house which was built in 1973 after the owner’s non-stop binge on 96 episodes of the Brady Bunch. Red-eyed and numb he decided a tri-level house was the thing for him, with the main (middle) floor consisting of a kitchen with bright blue counters and plaid wallpaper, and a dining room with shimmering pale green wallpaper and a chandelier made of 3″x6″ squares of beveled glass hanging from bronze wires. Pretty damn awesome, but he forgot to include the bathroom. Accessing areas of relief require a trip up or down stairs and this is not negotiable. We did re-do the house (buh-bye, blue counter tops and disco fixture) but adding a bathroom on the main floor was not optional unless we wanted to stick it on the front of the house. Which would be rather a southern-type thing to do, but since we’ve already got the old washtub and the tractor with one wheel in the front yard and the couch and nonfunctional Coke machine on the porch we decided to pass. It seemed to me it would ruin the flow.

I did end up very successfully *oops* missing both the yoga and Pilates classes Monday (honestly, I was busy with work which provided the perfect excuse). This morning I will do three little slow miles – and by the way: It’s National Running Day! are you participating? – and then go see Killer who will undoubtedly have several new tortures awaiting me. Tiny little blond thing with such a pretty smile, it’s so disarming. Every time I think, I love Killer! Happy Day! I get to see her! and then I get there and realize once again I’ve deceived myself.

By the way, last year they busted a Bed & Breakfast Bondage house in a local bedroom community here – fine, upstanding community populated with many upper middle class citizens who were astounded such a thing could occur. If they could look into Killer’s garage they might not be so surprised.

Yesterday I did a bit of track work, which is a new thing for me and while it went OK I did worry that the high-pitched squeal of pain from my quads might set off the nearby donut shop’s alarm. The owner of the donut shop must go to bed every night Praizing Jayzus that he bought that frontage lot, which a year or so later saw a high school erected about 50 feet behind him and now a couple thousand or more hungry high schoolers and hundreds of exhausted teachers drive past his haven of caffeine and sugar every morning. When I drove out I thought longingly of his apple fritters which are reallllly good – and I’m an apple fritter connoisseur – but I kept moving, realizing that the calories left on the track would immediately reappear in my front seat if I stopped.

The best part of the day yesterday was getting the B’ster from daycare. He’s a blast. We stopped at the grocery. He sat in the cart pointing at all the fruit. APPLE! APPLE! APPLE! Sure, I think guavas and tomatoes look pretty much like apples, too. He had to hold the package of hamburger. Until we passed the Goldfish which were not on the grocery list but you can damn skippy bet that Moggie immediately put them on the list. Hamburger relegated to the back of the cart, he proudly held the Goldfish. Then he helped at the checkout, happily throwing everything he could reach onto the moving conveyor. The checker was a young man who handed B’ster one of the grocery sacks, “Here you go little Dude” and B smiled large.

At my house he found his two toy boxes and dislodged everything. He wore his fireman hat and I wore my racing car hat. We built a house of Duplo blox and he installed the Mommy-Daddy-B’str Duplo people on the roof. After that, apparently, there was a Natural Disaster and the house was destroyed. He found a book that has his mother’s name inscribed in the front and I read it to him twice while I remembered reading it to her a few decades ago. Next we went down to the dock where I sat and stuck my feet in the lake. Astounded, he smiled, sat down, pulled of his shoes and socks and dangled his feet in a lake for the first time. Traitor came over with more stuff to put in the attic. We made hamburgers & chicken burgers and ate on the deck. It was a sweet day.

Here’s a pic of B’ster and the story time, the Disco Dining Room and also the chicken burgers recipe which was really good.

Disco Dining Room

Copy cat recipe of Trader Joe’s Chili Lime Chicken Burgers.

Ingredients (serves 4)

1lb ground chicken

2 green onions, chopped

1/4 cup chopped red bell pepper

2 Tablespoons chopped cilantro

2 teaspoons minced garlic

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes

1 lime, cut in half

4 slices pepper jack cheese

4 buns, toasted

For the guacamole:

1 avocado

garlic powder

salt & pepper

Instructions

Combine chicken, green onions, bell pepper, cilantro, garlic, salt, red pepper flakes and juice of half a lime in a large bowl. Mix until thoroughly combined, then form into 4 patties and spray each side generously with non-stick spray.

Heat a large grill pan or skillet over medium-high heat. Grill burgers for 3-4 minutes a side, or until cooked all the way through. Place a slice of cheese on top of each burger, then cover with a large pot lid, and allow to melt for about a minute. Remove burgers to a plate, tent with foil, and allow to rest for 5 minutes. Place each burger on a toasted thin bun, then top with guacamole.

For the guacamole: Mash all ingredients together with a potato masher or fork.

I joined up with one of my BRFF’s, SAYruh Goodie Two Shoes, at the 3rd Annual Navy Nautical 10 Miler Sunday morning. It’s a great race, renowned in the first two years for being hotter than the hubs of hell – or Afghanistan – which I think is hotter than hell so Afghanistan gets one point. This year dawned bright and cool; it was in the low 60’s when I drove to the Naval Base. I didn’t have very high expectations, performance-wise, but knew the race would be fun and at least not so hot this year.

This race is awesome/interesting for several reasons:

it supports the Fisher House which is rather like Target House for St. Jude (Fisher House provides a place for loved ones to be near their family member in the service during illness, injury or disease)

it is run on the Sunday closest to the anniversary of D-Day

it’s 10 nautical miles because on D-Day it was approximately 10NM from the horizon to the beach, making 10NM (11.5 land miles) how far the Allied Forces had to travel while under threat of German mortars before they were on dry land

each year they continue to add Satellite Races in locations like Afghanistan, Djibouti, and Kuwait, where the service men and women participate.

After learning all that and running 10 NM without German mortars falling all about me, I felt particularly embarrassed that I grumbled about hard hard the run was. Even more so because it wasn’t even really hot.

However – difficult, it was. My quads were tired and tight from the first step to the last, particularly my hip flexors, I felt like I was running in short, tight little baby steps. I’m glad I had Sayruh G2S with me because she pushed me. And I pushed her. We shared equally in our pain, occasionally emitting a weak *honk* and about mile 9 or 10 I felt a twinge of BFOS which had me a bit nervous. I am getting really tired of my butt falling off. Unless you are a fellow BFOS sufferer you will not understand the pain and suffering of a butt falling off. Consider this: Part of your butt is trying to fall off. You sit down at the kitchen table to eat. You are sitting sideways because part of your butt is falling off. You’re really hungry because even though you were not subjected to German mortar (for which you are truly grateful, and incredibly grateful to all the wonderful service men and women that make it possible for your butt to fall off in safety) you did just run 10NM and you’re HUNGRY. You scoop a nice fork full of spaghetti and meatballs which immediately slides off the fork because you are listing to port.

For you cynics out there that think this is not a sad thing, please see this to fully understand the pain and suffering this syndrome can cause in all aspects of your life. It’s a hard thing to watch, but if you do watch this video I think you will have a new empathy for BFOS sufferers and their sorrow. Probably you should go get some tissues before you watch it, tho.

We probably looked pretty stupid, SG2S and I. We walked every water stop and we would stretch, arms overhead, then stretch our legs by taking long, shallow lunges. I’m running in my Hokas all the time, now, so I also looked like some newbie, unaware of the class-action suit, wearing Sketchers from Payless Shoes Store to run 11 miles while firming and toning my falling off butt. Plus we thought we were funny so we exaggerated every movement, turning the stretch into a palms up salute to the sun and the shallow lunges into a distance contest. Since SG2S is about 5’3″ to my 5’8″ – I won.

At 9.25NM I was pretty much horse to the barn, I knew I was close to the finish line although I couldn’t see it. For a minute I kind of lost all thought, went to the dark place a bit. Suddenly I realized SG2S wasn’t next to me. I stopped and looked around. “SAYRUH!!!” – there she was, behind me. “What happened?” I asked. She said, “you took off like a bat!” I told her apparently I’d gone to the dark place in my brain for a minute. I’d never done that in a race before. Very interesting.

I think the spinning/cross training is helping, because while my hip flexors were very tight yesterday – which is not something I usually have issues with – this morning we are being an equal opportunity painfest and every single muscle between my hips and my knees hurt equally: front, back, side to side. Only crazy nutjob runners would understand that I see this as a good thing, everything must be getting stronger if I’m using all the muscles evenly. In my new-found commitment to doing everything possible to be fit and in pain I’ve decided I might possibly consider trying the 10:15 Yoga class at the Center, unless I’m successful in my attempts to talk myself out of it. We’re about 50/50 right now.

You have to understand, both of you, that I hate yoga. First: I’m about as flexible, physically, as a 2×4 at Lowe’s. Second: I did try it once. I ended up on the mat next to a professional ballerina. She was absolutely beautiful. Tiny little thing, white-blond hair, big blue eyes, and she could pull her leg up over her head and then rotate. I fell over.

I mean, I actually fell over, not that I fell over with amazement. I didn’t land on her, luckily, or she’d have been squished to death. It was like watching an elephant try to race a squirrel up a tree. Pathetic. The class was posted to be 50 minutes but I’m pretty sure it lasted at least a week. I got in the car, went home, and hid in the closet.

I decided maybe I should try Pilates. My trainer, Killer, was teaching the Pilates class and she encouraged me to do it. Since I have a huge girl crush on her despite the fact that she lies awake all night thinking of new tortures involving large stability balls, ropes, and hinges-and-pullies, I agreed. There was one exercise where you lie on your back, arms at your sides, legs straight up in the air (so you look like the letter “L” on it’s side) and you are supposed to balance the stability ball (3 feet in diameter) on the soles of your upraised feet. *are you sh*tting me??* Killer helpfully suggested that the ‘new people’ in the class could scootch up to the wall and raise their legs against it for more stability. I did. It didn’t help. I dropped the ball on the head of the lady next to me. Unfortunately, I found that funny and laughed. Socially unacceptable.

Since I’ve been writing I’ve kinda decided I might bag the yoga. Now a couple other BRFF’s and I are chatting online and they may have convinced me to try Pilates tonight. At least if they are there and I drop the ball on someone’s head I know for sure I won’t be the only one laughing. And if I get tossed out of class I won’t be alone. I’m thinking about it, unless I’m successful in my attempts to talk myself out of it. We’re about 40/60 right now.

I can hear thunder in the distance. We’re supposed to have rainstorms off and on all day. Last night we had a huge rain/thunderstorm. About 3am there was big one, very close by, and I heard loud thud. “What was that?!” Hubs replied, “Chunk fell off the bed.” HAHAHAHAHA You begin to understand why she’s called Chunk. When I got her last summer Traitor was living with us for a couple months while he looked for a job after graduation. I brought her home and told him she was a boy kitten, help me come up with a name. He suggested Chester as a joke but I loved it. The next day I took all 6.5 ounces of Chester to the vet where he announced Chester is a girl. She’s a calico. How did I even think she was a boy? So I decided to call her Chessie but it totally didn’t fit. When she got up to about a pound and was old enough to climb up the chairs she would balance herself on the arm of the chair and throw herself off, leaping into space with all four legs outstretched like a flying squirrel, landing with a very loud THUMP. Definitely not a cat which should be named “Grace”. Hubs started saying, “well, the Chunk just jumped off the chair” and there you go.

It’s real pretty out right now, overcast and cool, birds singing and cooing. I bought a new book yesterday. I hesitated, wondering if I’d like it, but I got into it last night. It’s going to be 90 later today, which between the hubs not being here for dinner tonight, the tired legs, and the laziness of a warm summer day it could be that the book and I bag everything by about 4:30pm and call it a day.

I’m glad I did the race yesterday, I’m glad my Hip Flexors are tight, I’m glad my thighs are equal opportunity hurters, and I managed to be 5th in my age group despite walking water stops and not being in the best of shape. If those two bee-ahches from Baton Rouge hadn’t shown up and run like a couple of bats I’d have placed, but you can’t really be mad about someone running 10NM 10 and 20 minutes faster that you. That’s just plain awesome. It’s 10:32 now and darn it, I missed the Yoga class, shoot. Murph is sleeping next to me in my office and Chunker is being real sweet, on my lap, trying to smack my hands while I type. Little cutie. It’s a great day.

The only thing that could ruin this day is if I found out something incredibly First World Television like, Bristol Palin is going to have a reality show about her life.

Here’s a serious post for you two. Have you ever heard of Sarcopenia? The first I ever heard of it was at the RRCA National Convention in March, when Ashley Hofeditz, RD, LDN, a Dietician and Nutritionist, spoke about the topic. It was literally eye-opening: I stared at her wide-eyed, madly scribbling notes on my name tag, which I promptly lost.

To learn more about it, and to see the full article about the photos below, please visit Mr. Tim Huntley’s entire blog and my previous post featuring the article by Ms. Hofeditz in the Memphis Commercial Appeal.